


'cause i got me for life

by mindyfication



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 06, Self-cest, Soulless Sam Winchester, Stanford Sam Winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindyfication/pseuds/mindyfication
Summary: Dean failed Death's task, but there's a witch who can summon Sam's soul.Things don't go exactly as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> there's also a hint of dean/sam, and technically i'm using an au!stanford sam to avoid time travel annoyances  
> i [tumble](https://mindyfication.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Title from G-eazy's Me, Myself and I

Sam’s edging towards consciousness when he hears a gravely voice: “The witch can do the spell, but Dean I must warn you-”

He fights to open his eyes then, to get up. He told them- he doesn’t need Lucifer’s leftovers, and he sure as hell doesn’t want them. He’s the perfect hunter, better than Dean could ever dream. Someone even his father would have been proud of. It might even be better than being ‘whole’, having no fear. But there’s no question that it’s better than whatever traumatic mess his soul would bring. 

Sam loses consciousness again before he can voice a single order or complaint or threat. 

.

Sam is fucking exhausted. Sleeping in his tomorrow clothes probably didn’t help, but he wanted to be able to run to class if he woke up late. He crammed for this last final all night, and he knows he’s only getting like four hours of sleep but it feels like less when he’s jerked into consciousness. 

“Well fuck,” a voice says, it almost sounds like Dean when he imitates Dad.

Sam opens his eyes and promptly yells. Three men have him in Bobby’s panic room, two of them looking vaguely familiar. One of them is cuffed to a bed, and Sam’s reaching into pockets he knows are practically empty, hoping a weapon magically appears. This is what he gets for being compliant at Stanford.

“Where’s Bobby?” He demands when they don’t say anything. “And how the hell did you get me from my apartment to here? What do you want? I need to go back, I have a final in torts-”

“Always a nerd,” one of them says, rolling his eyes in a too well-known way. 

A sudden chill sets over his shoulders as the other man says, “This Sam is not of our universe. He is not an abomination.” 

Sam’s slowly backing up to the wall, needs to get away from these crazy people before he ends up like the guy cuffed down. 

“Can we still put his soul in our Sam?” 

“That would not be wise.” 

Two sets of eyes go back to him, and Sam tries not to look suspicious. “Who are you guys?” 

“You don’t recognize your own brother Sam? That wounds me,” Dean says, and he can see it now. The eyes are the same, the baby face nearly gone, new lines in its wake. 

“I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord.” 

Sam blinks, crosses his arms, “Bullshit.”

The so-called angel starts speaking again, “Dean we must discuss the implications of a pure vessel-”

“Right, you just uh, stay here with yourself. Play nice.” 

And with that Dean and Castiel leave him locked in the panic room. Sam goes over to the bed with wide eyes, gaze trailing over the scars on his exposed arms. It’s stranger but more comforting to see the aged version of himself. 

“You didn’t stay out of hunting,” Sam says, frowning. “Did you even get your degree? How soon-”

“Christ,” he mutters, “let me up and I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know Sammy.” 

“It’s Sam,” he says with a frown. 

The older version of him snorts, “I can call myself whatever I want. And you’re younger, so you’re Sammy.” 

It’s an obnoxious argument, but it’s also something Sam could see himself saying to a younger version of himself- and if he keeps thinking about this he’s going to have a massive headache. 

“Why’d they cuff you?” he asks, hands hesitating at his ankles. 

Sam rolls his eyes, “I didn’t want them to do the spell they did. Now free me, or I’ll dislocate my wrist and do it myself.” 

He lets him up at that, undoing all four, and the older man sits up sharply. Sam’s throat goes dry, he hadn’t expected this version of himself to be so much, well, bigger. 

“When did you start hunting again?” Sam asks, wonders how much time he has. He’s already screwed for his final, but maybe if he wrote a really apologetic email with a sudden death to the professor he can maybe write it next week starting ten points behind. 

The older Sam’s hand claps his shoulder gently, sending a wave of warmth through him. “After Jess died.” 

Sam blinks, “Who is that?” 

Sam’s grip tenses and he looks at him again, “How old are you?” 

“Twenty-one,” he says, “can’t you tell or something?” 

His head cocks to the side, long hair falling forward. “You friends with Brady?” 

Sam’s nose scrunches up, “The douchebag that throws loud parties during exam weeks? Hell no.” 

“You really aren’t me,” he says, hand dropping. 

It’s disappointing for some weird reason, and Sam wants to know more about this other version of himself. Kind of wants to wrap him in a blanket until his expression doesn’t look so dismal. (…which is ridiculous. This Sam could kick his ass, probably _would_ kick his ass if he voiced such a thing much less tried.)

“What happened?” Sam tries instead. 

The older Sam laughs hollowly, “Doesn’t matter kiddo, it won’t happen to you.” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, can’t think of anything else to say.

“Christ, you really are,” Sam says, looking entirely too amused. “Sit.”

He obeys, the crap mattress springs squeaking under his weight. “What do you-”

“Shhh,” Sam says, interrupting him, a large finger on his lips. “You wanna make me feel better?” 

Sammy nods eagerly, doesn’t care if he’s reading this all wrong or what Sam wants, all he can imagine wanting right now is his older self to be less… Sam can’t even think of the right word- it isn’t that his older self is sad per se, or haunted, but he’s lacking something fundamental. 

“Good boy,” he says, bringing him out of his head. Sam’s hand cradles him, tugs on his hair by the root, making him gasp and arch up to him. Lips descend on his exposed throat and Sam can’t remember ever being so turned on, the man kissing and biting up his neck. 

“You’re in my world now,” he murmurs. “You’re _mine_ Sammy.” 

He shivers, half arousal, half something else that Sam pushes away. Sam’s teeth scrape against his jaw before their lips come together, a mess of tongues and teeth. A huge hand slips into his pants, and he can’t help but whine, awkwardly clamoring onto Sam’s lap. 

“I- I want,” Sammy breathes, threading his fingers through his hair. 

He smirks, grip twisting, “I know baby boy. You like it fast.” 

Sam shudders at the name, but he’s thrusting into his older self’s fingers. He doesn’t- _can’t_ \- think about that right now. Or ever. 

“I know you,” he continues, despair and desire swirling in Sam’s stomach. “I know every little messed up thing _Sammy_. See, I don’t think your universe was all that different.” 

He squeezes the base of his cock, even harder, and Sam whimpers. “Please, I can’t- not that.” 

Sam looks at him curiously before shrugging, hand suddenly feather light as it teases up and down his shaft. “Alright Sammy.” 

He needs to do something with his hands, his older self is nearly too much, overwhelming. Going for his clothes, Sam strips them- backwards and closer to what Dean would wear than himself. Hunter clothes, he corrects in his head. 

“Holy shit,” Sam says once his older version is naked, hands feeling everything. He’s gorgeous, there’s no question of that, more muscles than Sam ever dreamed of having. But the scars- there are scars nearly everywhere. Some he doesn’t even know how they were made, much less the stories behind them. 

His fingers hesitate over a bullet wound, and the older Sam moves his hand. “No.” 

He still wants to ask, wants to kiss every last mark. But then Sam’s shoving him down on his back on the tiny cot without any effort, the mattress springs squealing loud, and pure need shoots through his veins. 

“I know you,” Sam says again, a promise. His legs fall open, at his words or actions Sam isn’t sure. The older Sam’s heavy hips land between them, and Sammy isn’t going to last twenty more seconds at this rate. He reaches up to kiss him, needs to stop himself from asking all of his questions right now or saying something irreversible. 

Two wide fingers press at his ass, just enough to tease, and Sam presses back, aches for something in him. He groans at the dry stretch, wants more already anyways. 

Sam curls his fingers, frowning even as Sammy undulates against them. “You won’t like getting my dick dry.” 

“Don’t care I- I have lube in my jeans.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow, reaching down beside the cot. He doesn’t take his fingers out though, and Sammy fucks himself, is probably enjoying the dry drag a little too much. It’s like he can feel everything though, it’s all friction, and so much more intense than the times he touched himself in the shower. 

“Should I be jealous?” the older Sam asks, tearing open the packet. 

“Ha ha,” he says dryly, can’t help a blush from flooding his cheeks. “I was gonna go out after exams.” Talking about casual sex with himself shouldn’t feel so embarrassing, but it is. It invites the comparison to what would have happened in his world- jerking off alone after dancing the night away, or another sub-par hookup. 

“That’s adorable Sammy,” he says, and then there are suddenly three cold slick fingers inside him. Sam gasps, bucking his hips, and his older self heeds the wordless plea, sliding his fingers in and out. They warm up quickly enough, and he bites the neck above him. 

“More,” he demands, wants to feel stretched and full. 

Sam’s lips quirk up into a little smile, and before Sammy can process it, his fingers are out and a thick cock has replaced them. It’s everything he wanted- steals all of thought and attention. 

“ _Fuck_ me,” he exhales, dragging Sam closer to him. Sammy’s nails scratch over bunching muscles, skate up and down his back. “Faster.” 

Instantly Sam’s tempo picks up, thrusting harder and faster, kissing Sammy’s gasping mouth. Sammy rocks his own hips up, over and over, as they slam together better and better. The heat keeps building between them, and Sam feels like he could immolate without caring. 

He knows his orgasm is approaching fast- it was a near miracle that he didn’t come all over himself just from Sam’s fingers. But God, Sammy doesn’t want it- he wants to exist in this moment forever. His older self completely consuming him, and the happiest he’s seen him yet. 

“You’re going to stay with me,” Sam growls in his ear, and Sammy’s vision whites out, ears roaring as he comes. 

He distantly feels Sam fuck him through the aftershocks, feels him fill him up with wet heat. It should feel gross or something, but he likes it. It feels like another promise.

His older self rolls off, pulling out and Sammy nestles into his shoulder, sleepy. Sam wraps one arm around him, two fingers from his other hand gliding into his ass easy. His soft cock twitches at that, and his mind melts. 

Sam kisses the side of his head, “Thought you’d like that.” 

Sammy lets out a breathless little laugh, “Yeah. That’s one hell of an understatement. And you?” 

Sam grins, pleased, “I felt it.” 

He can’t help a teasing snicker, “You don’t usually?” 

“No,” he says. It’s flat, neutral, and Sammy leans up at that with furrowed brows. 

“But-. Oh, I- I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” he says dismissively. “You’re here now.” 

“Won’t they send me back?” Sam asks- and he should know what answer he wants. It’s law school 101 practically, knowing the type of answer you want when you ask a question. But for the life of him, he doesn’t know, can barely think about things like consequence or future or anything outside of the cot. 

“No, the witch is about to die. No one else can do the spell,” he says, arms tightening around him. 

A chill darts down his spine, “How do you know that?” 

“A secret Sammy,” he says, pressing his fingers a little deeper in him. “I’m a little psychic.” 

And he can hear Dean, his Dad, even Bobby, in that moment, all of them warning him off any type of monster. Even the pretty ones, even the smart and kind ones. Even the ones with family. Because it was always an illusion, you don’t earn the name monster lightly. You don’t become inhuman humanely. 

But Sammy doesn’t care, this is _himself_. 

“Tell me more.”


End file.
